


I Imagine Death So Much It Feels More Like A Memeory

by BlueGirl22



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Depression, Gen, I'm Sorry, This is sad guys, be prepared, disguised suicide, if you hold this up to a light and shake it around you can kinda see hamburr, in case the other tags didn't warn you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:01:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7039939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueGirl22/pseuds/BlueGirl22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Chernow's biography, <br/>"Hamilton's decision [to throw away his shot] has given rise to speculation that he was severely depressed and that the duel was suicidal. Henry Adams phrased it, 'Instead of killing Burr, [Hamilton] invited Burr to kill him.'"<br/>So, to satisfy my never end need for PAIN, I have written this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aaron

Why couldn’t Hamilton ever just _let something go_ ? Everyone got it, he wasn’t going to vote for Burr. That was all he needed to say. He didn’t need to keep going on and on about how terrible of a president Burr would make, how he would drop any ideals he had the second it was advantageous. Yes, Burr was familiar with Hamilton’s incredible need to say anything and everything that was on his mind in the shortest amount of time possible, but even for him, this was excessive. It seemed almost like he was testing Burr’s boundaries, trying to get a rise out of him. But that would be _ridiculous_ . This entire situation is _ridiculous_.

Burr watched as Hamilton threw insult after infuriating insult was at him. He read the editorials smearing his name, and heard repeated back to him what Hamilton would say in front of crowds. Burr was never a man to act rashly but _enough_ was _enough_. He wrote to his former friend, expecting to just be able to vent his anger and get an apology. He didn’t even care if there was any meaning behind the words. That, it may suffice to say, was not what he got.

They argued for what seemed like time eternal via those letters, each one more infuriatingly venomous than the last. Why wouldn’t Alexander just apologize? Was whatever Burr had to say really _that_ bad? In a moment of rage, Aaron challenged Hamilton to a duel. He didn’t even really want it to go ahead. What he really wanted was to just jolt Hamilton into apologizing already.

_Why on earth did he have to accept?_

* * *

 

The next day saw Burr regretting his life decisions. He rehearsed his speech to de-escalate the situation in his head on the boat ride over. He may hate conceding to Hamilton, but he was _not_ going to risk not being around for his daughter on a petty honor strife. He would forfeit, he would make sure Van Ness never spoke a word of this terribly embarrassing affair to anyone, and he would go home. Maybe he could even get back to sleep before Theodosia awoke.

But Burr knew something was off the second he laid eyes on Alexander. The times he had seen the other man duel in the past, he had always been self-righteously angry, cracking his knuckles, or bouncing on the balls of his feet. He wasn’t like that this time. This time, he seemed grim, with his jaw set firmly, and dressed in dark attire. He was looking, to the world, like a man on a mission. With a sickening lurch in his heart, Burr realized that Alexander might just _want_ to kill him. Maybe that’s why he had been so aggressive, so that he could use a fair duel as an excuse. That idea was only reinforced as he watched Hamilton stare out at the landscape, examine his gun, and, oh God, as he polished and put on his glasses.

As Van Ness began to stride towards Pendleton, Burr moved his hand, waving the seconds away. He then stepped just out of earshot, and motioned for Hamilton to come speak with him. It was a little unnerving, staring directly into the other man’s eyes. Neither of them had any height advantage to speak of, so they had always ended up staring right at each other. Burr had somehow completely forgotten all of the words he prepared, and fished around in his brain for something that might diffuse the apparent ticking time-bomb that was Hamilton. He liked honesty, so maybe Burr should try that for once.

“Listen, I know that the seconds usually do this but, I wanted to talk directly to you,” he began, “We may have our differences, but I don’t think that they are worth either of us losing our lives over. I _do_ apologize for any wrongs I may have done you, so what do you say for us forgetting this entire matter and going home?”

Hamilton looked dismayed. More than dismayed, he looked disappointed, shattered, God, he was actually trembling. Could he want to shoot Burr _that_ badly?

“No, no, please,” Alexander began. His voice was trembling as well. Aaron felt another off key. This was not like Hamilton. Long-winded rant about how awful Burr is? Yes. Breaking voice and shaking hands? No. “We have to duel. I assure you that I pose no threat. I have made my peace, and I will not fire. Well, not _at_ you.”

Ah, there was the torrent of words Burr was so used to. Hamilton went on for another sentence or two before the words’ meaning really sank into his brain.

Interrupting Hamilton’s flow, “Wait, what do you mean you will not fire at me? And what do you mean you have made your peace? Do you expect me to just shoot and murder you in cold blood?”

“No, not _murder_. This is a fair duel, no prosecution possible. ‘Murder’ isn’t the correct term.”

Some things clicked in Aaron’s head. The over aggression, actually, the _repeated_ over aggression, the immediate acceptance of the duel, the complete refusal to apologize, the grim air about him. To anyone looking at this from the outside, it would just look like good ole’ Alexander Hamilton, charging brazenly into a battle of pride, but this time taking it a little too far. That person wouldn’t have known him for thirty years, wouldn’t see the pleading in his eyes.

“No. No, Hamilton, I can’t do this. Whatever melancholy spin your mind is on currently, I assure you, dying won’t help. I cannot, I _will_ not kill you.”

“You think this is some stroke of momentary madness that has come over me. Believe me, I have tried all other ways to try and fix whatever it is that has broken in my head, but have found no relief. I have thought through every option, and this one is the best. Before you say ‘Have you considered not dying?’ let me tell you I cannot. I can’t go on like this. I need to die. But there is no honor in dying by one’s own hand. My family, my children, Eliza would be disgraced if there was any implication that I did this on purpose.” He was actually crying now. Not making any sobbing sound, yet there were tears flowing down his face.

“Hamilton, no. I didn’t even want to shoot you when I thought that this would be a fair fight. How on earth could you expect me to do it now?”

“That’s simple. If you kill, me, your name goes down in history. You are remembered, your story gets told. No one remembers who comes in second place, even in a presidential race. No one likes me, so surely no one will blame you for this.Who knows,” he tried for a smile, “Jefferson and Adams may even give you a medal for valiant service to your country.”

Burr couldn’t believe what he was hearing. So what? Murder isn’t a great thing to be remembered for, anyway. Hamilton must have been taking his silence as need for further persuasion, and started talking again. “I told you, I’ve thought this through, and this is the best outcome for everybody. I’ve been planning this for a while, and I waited for you to react. And you know as well as anybody, I’m not good at waiting. So if you don’t kill me,” his voice finally broke, “I’ll have to do it myself.”

Aaron looked at Alexander. His friend, his enemy. It hit him that nothing had ever stopped him from doing anything before. It hit him that Alexander was telling the truth. If Aaron turned around and went home now, all he would be doing was forcing the other man into a few more days of life. Looking at the desperation in his dark eyes, he realized it might not even be a few days.

He took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Alexander tried to smile again, and took a shaky breath. He extended his hand to be shook. Aaron took it, pulled Alexander into a close hug, and whispered, “I am so sorry.”

He heard a muffled, “You have nothing to be sorry for, Aaron Burr, sir. It is I who should be apologizing to you.”

Aaron pulled away. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Till we meet again.”

They stalked back over the the various seconds and the now turned around doctor. Burr lifted his gun and heard the counting begin. For a fleeting moment, he considered that the entire conversation had been a charade to make Burr let his guard down, but all thought left his mind when he heard “-ten paces, fire!” and Hamilton aimed his pistol at the sky.

“Wait!”


	2. Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton had no other options left. This was his final hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little longer than I expected. Sorry.

When did he start to feel like this? Alexander didn’t quite know.

Was it when his father left him and his mother for dead? Was it when he was forced to stay lying next to his dead mother for days? Was it when, at the prospect of having to care for him, his cousin decided death was a better option? Was it when everything he had spent his entire life working for was obliterated, wiped from the face of the earth, leaving him to try and pick up the nonexistent pieces?

Alexander didn’t know. It wasn’t as bad then. And then it got better for a long time. New York helped. Having _actual_ friends for once, helped. Keeping busy helped. Angelica and Eliza helped. Children helped.

Things went on a slight downward spin after the… _news_ about Laurens reached him. But working helped some, and getting the banks set up helped more, so he tried to put out of his mind what he did during the interim period. He might have told Eliza if he thought that there was any chance the news wouldn’t destroy her. Actually, correction. It wouldn’t destroy _her_ . She was far too strong for that. It would destroy what she _thought_ of him. He knew that in no plane of existence did he deserve her, but she was about 89% of what kept him together, and without her… he did not think he would fare so well.

But then it became impossible to avoid her finding out. Alexander figured that there were two ways this could go: he publishes his pamphlet, or Democratic-Republicans write a worse one. The feeling came ebbing back along with the words flowing onto the pages. The melancholy deepened when Eliza left. She may have still physically _been_ in the same house, but that was purely for appearances, for the children. She never looked at him, never spoke to or about him, and was never in the same room as him longer than was necessary to cross from one door to another.

And then Phillip… Phillip… Phillip _left_. Alexander found that was the only word he was able to use. Left. Departed. Ascended. He realized with a jolt that there was no coming out on the other side of this. No, he may not know when it started, but he knew exactly when he lost the fight. He had even managed to win Eliza back, but if anything, that made it worse. He felt, even though he loved her more than words can quantify, like he was deceiving her, that he was in no way deserving of her smile, her love.

 

He didn’t deserve _anything_ anymore.

 

He seemed to hurt anyone he ever loved. He had forced Angelica into a marriage with a man she barely even liked, he had taken advantage of Eliza’s trusting and sought solace with another, his son had gone into a duel to defend his _father’s_ honor, and been … made to leave early because his terrible advice. There was nothing left for him. It was terrible, wanting nothing more then to draw his children close, but also knowing that he should get far away before he did any more damage. The despair was crushing him, so he put all of his effort into trying to appear untroubled. There was no need to cause anyone else worry.

 

Alexander knew a way to get very far away indeed.

 

Except that was the problem, he didn’t know. He had to die, he knew that. Every day the feeling deepened, and it got harder to keep up the charade of normalcy. He could only pass so much off as mourning. Hanging was out of the question. That would be so obviously self-inflicted that the remaining eight Hamiltons would become social pariahs for the rest of their lives. That took out a bullet through the roof of the mouth or cut veins, as well. “Accidentally” tripping and falling down several flights of stairs? There was no honor in that, and his family deserved honor. Plus, there was no guarantee that that would work. He might just end up with a broken back and be unable to do anything further.

Maybe he could try and contract another one of those odd illnesses he always got. It shouldn’t be too hard. Just not eat or sleep for a week, like he had done so many times before, and then visit hospitals until he got something deadly. But he didn’t want to pass it to anyone caring for him. And who knew what he might reveal, in a state of delirium.

One day, he began considering, just, slipping out of a window. It would be quick, he just needed to stop overthinking.  He was on his own, which was never a good idea, as he began walking towards the open window on the other side of the room. Then, he noticed a newspaper that had been brought in earlier in the day, which he hadn’t bothered looking at. He paused to look at it just long enough for someone else to enter the room. He reached his arm toward the shutter, closed the window, and picked up the paper. It said something about both Jefferson and Burr running for president. He sat back down again as a plan began to weave itself into his mind.

* * *

 

It had worked very smoothly. Burr had reacted to the taunts exactly as expected. Oh, Burr. Hamilton would have felt sorry for upsetting him so if he had any emotion left. He was putting everything he had into holding up for just another week or two. He had begun to feel nervous that Burr, as always, had let the insults go and shoved any emotion into a back corner of his mind upon not hearing from him immediately. He published a few more articles and gave a few more speeches for good measure.

Alexander tried not to let the relief show on his face when he he was presented with a letter, addressed with writing as familiar as his own. He had been worrying that he would have to add fuel to the fire in person. But letters? He could do letters.

Written words had always been his medium. He could make them do anything. Convince Burr that he was fine, and just behaving rashly? Sure. The challenge for a duel came quickly, and he could barely scrawl out a note of acceptance fast enough. He knew if he gave Burr _any_ time to think, he would retract the offer.

* * *

 

By candlelight, Hamilton poured his thoughts onto the small sheet of paper. He tried to keep it as honest as possible, without letting on to his meaning: 

> "If it had been possible for me to have avoided the interview, my love for you and my precious children would have been alone a decisive motive. But it was not possible, without sacrifices which would have rendered me unworthy of your esteem.”

It was all true. He had waited for death as long as he could. If the duel didn’t go forward… well, an obvious suicide would definitely make him unworthy of her esteem. If there was some other way, a way to avoid the inevitable, then he would have taken it. He loved them _so_ much. He could barely breathe, thinking about them having to mourn yet again. But they would get over it. Eliza would surely realize she deserved far better, and serve as a far better parent by herself then if he was constantly dragging them down.

But the thought of never seeing his family again still pained him. He clung to the idea that he might see them in Heaven. Of course, he had considered that that wasn’t where he would go. Adultery was enough to get one into Hell, but he had definitely confessed and repented for that. He’d killed people during the war, but, of course, that was war, so he didn’t think that would be counted as murder. Yes, he was making sure someone killed him, but he wasn’t committing the act himself, so he didn’t know about whether he could go down for suicide either. There was most likely a host of things that he’d done but was forgetting, so he put it out of his mind. Anyway, if he went to Hell, at least he would have his cousin to talk to. And, eventually, Jefferson. He knew enough about Sally Hemings to know where the current president would be going.

Alexander heard something from behind where he was sitting at his desk. In a beloved feminine voice, he heard, “Alexander come back to sleep.”

He quickly turned so that the words were not visible from where Eliza was standing, and, very carefully, he didn’t look at her at all. She would know something was wrong if she got a look at him.“I have an early meeting out of town.”

He heard her draw open a curtain slightly. “It’s still dark outside.”

“I know. I just need to write something down.” He furiously tried to finish the last few lines as best as he could.

Eliza probably noticed his pace picking up, “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?”

He tried to quiet her with a “Shh.” afraid that he might just break down if she kept talking. He wanted to tell her everything, but at the same time would rather die than let her know. Then again, saying he would rather die then do something, at that moment, would not be a very good comparison.

“Come back to bed, that would be enough.”

He didn’t want to lie anymore, but he had to say something to make her leave, before tears started. “I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

“Come back to sleep.” Her voice was like a flower in morning.

“This meeting’s at dawn.” That word choice made him think that part of him wanted her to notice what he was doing and dissuade him. She probably would have if she had been awake for more than five minutes.

“Well, I’m going back to sleep.” He heard her turn to leave.

A panic struck his heart. He had thought not looking at her would make it easier to hide his feelings. But he needed to see her smile one last time, he didn’t care how selfish that was.

He turned his head. “Hey. Best of wives, and best of women.” For a heart stopping second, she kept her back turned. Then, she faced him, and smiled, before walking through the door to their bedroom.

On his way out of the house, he quietly stole a look into all of the children’s rooms, again wishing to wake them a speak with them a final time, but knowing that would be impossible.

* * *

 

This was it. Hamilton stepped onto the shore with Pendleton and Dr. Hosack, and stared around at what he guessed would be the last place he would ever see. He caught sight of Burr, standing several feet away. The man looked nervous. It it weren’t for his dark complexion, Hamilton suspected that all color would have drained from his face. He looked down at his pistol. There was a sort of irony to the fact that he and his son would both die in a duel, on the same spot, with the same gun. He wanted to see if there was any anger in Burr’s countenance. Honestly, he couldn’t tell from this far away. He put on his glasses to try and get a more accurate read on his expression.

Bad idea. He could see more alarm rising in Aaron’s eyes every second. Alarm at what? he found himself wondering. Burr, even if he somehow managed to not hate him, surely could not feel any remorse at the thought of making there be one less Alexander Hamilton in the world. His stomach began to turn. Burr had to kill him. He _had_ to. He held his breath as the seconds walked towards each other, hoping they could just argue for a few seconds, and the duel would commence quickly. His heart dropped right down to his stomach when Burr motioned for _them_ to talk, instead.

There were a few moments of tense silence while they stared each other down. Alexander wondered if he would have to start talking first. Aaron took a deep breath and spared him the trouble. “Listen, I know that the seconds usually do this but, I wanted to talk directly to you. We may have our differences, but I don’t think that they are worth either of us losing our lives over. I _do_ apologize for any wrongs I may have done you, so what do you say for us forgetting this entire matter and going home?”

Oh no. Oh _no_. He could feel the words he so longed to speak starting to spill out. Not good. The entire plan hinged on everybody believing he was fine.

“No, no please.” He felt his eyes start to burn. “We have to duel. I assure you that I pose no threat. I have made my peace, and I will not fire. Well, not _at_ you. ” Too late. Another speech started. He barely registered that he was even talking until Burr cut him off.

“Wait, what do you mean you will not fire at me? And what do you mean you have made your peace? Do you expect me to just shoot and murder you in cold blood?”

Well, if _that_ was what he was worried about, Hamilton could reassure him. “No, not _murder_. This is a fair duel, no prosecution possible. ‘Murder’ isn’t the correct term.”

Alexander realized instantly that that had been the wrong thing to say. If he stared at Aaron’s eyes hard enough, he could actually see the puzzle pieces fitting together. A look of horror spread across his face.

“No. No, Hamilton, I can’t do this.” The shock was audible in his voice. “Whatever melancholy spin your mind is on currently, I assure you, dying won’t help. I cannot, I _will_ not kill you.”

Every wall and pretense of normality that Alexander had tried so desperately to maintain came crashing down around him. He couldn’t help it. Every word came flooding out at once.

“You think this is some stroke of momentary madness that has come over me. Believe me, I have tried all other ways to try and fix whatever it is that has broken in my head, but have found no relief. I have thought through every option, and this one is the best. Before you say ‘Have you considered not dying?’ let me tell you I cannot. I can’t go on like this. I need to die. But there is no honor in dying by one’s own hand. My family, my children, Eliza would be disgraced if there was any implication that I did this on purpose.” He could feel hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He tried to let the sensation ground him, before any more words could overflow from his head.

Burr looked even more horrified than before. He was looking at him like he was kicked puppy. “Hamilton, no. I didn’t even want to shoot you when I thought that this would be a fair fight. How on earth could you expect me to do it now?”

Hope that he might still go through with this glimmered in Alexander’s mind. He had thought about this beforehand. “That’s simple. If you kill, me, your name goes down in history. You are remembered, your story gets told. No one remembers who comes in second place, even in a presidential race. No one likes me, so surely no one will blame you for this. Who knows, Jefferson and Adams may even give you a medal for valiant service to your country.”

Aaron was silent for a moment. Hamilton took this as a sign that he was softening. He continued with, “I told you, I’ve thought this through, and this is the best outcome for everybody. I’ve been planning this for a while, and I waited for you to react. And you know as well as anybody, I’m not good at waiting. So if you don’t kill me,” he looked at the other man’s face. It struck him that there was a very real possibility that Burr would simply leave. That Alexander’s plan would fail. The pain leaked into his voice. “I’ll have to do it myself.”

There was yet more silence. Well, not really silence. Just a hush, with some noise in the background. After a moment, Alexander figured out that the soft creaking noise was him, sobbing. So much for secrecy and honor. He heard a pained “Okay.” from Aaron.

Hamilton’s heart jumped at the word. He tried to collect himself, drew in breath, and put out his hand. He was quite taken aback when Burr pulled him tightly to his chest. He lost his composure again and sobbed into Burr’s shoulder for another moment. By his ear, Aaron whispered, “I am so sorry.”

Alexander had never understood Aaron. Why was he apologizing for something that was so very much not his fault?  “You have nothing to be sorry for, Aaron Burr, sir. It is I who should be apologizing to you.”

The arms that were encircling him released their grip. Aaron looked him directly in the face, his eyes shining. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Till we meet again.”

He moved to his position as if in a trance, and barely heard the countdown. He was contemplating Aaron’s final words to him. Time seemed to slow as he pondered. A thought came to him that there was no difference between Heaven and Hell, that is was all just one broad “other side”. The idea gave him a measure of comfort. Were that so, he would be certain to see his mother, Washington, Laurens, Phillip, and, eventually, Eliza with the rest of their family. He was as close as he could to elation at the thought, even as he felt a bullet rip through him.

He heard a frantic “Wait!” from Aaron before blacking out.

* * *

 

Alexander woke up on a boat on what he could only assume was the trip back across the river. A quick self-examination revealed that his wound was definitely fatal. He caught sight of his gun across the deck. He couldn’t remember if he had fired or not. He whispered that Pendleton should check to make sure it was empty, so it didn’t accidentally go off and harm someone. Then darkness again. And he didn’t know if this was a dream or not, but he could have sworn he heard Eliza’s voice talking to him through the end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On more chapter, and time will have gone on a bit.


	3. Eliza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza soon realizes that grief is so much harder when you grieve alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long one this one took. But, y'know, finals week.  
> Also, just a note: this is in no way historically accurate. I throw in the odd historical tidbit to spice up the musical-verse, but really, this is my own history/musical hybrid-verse.

Eliza stepped swiftly along the stone New York streets, dressed in black again. She had tried walking out by herself many times over the past month. She had thought it might help, as Alexander had done lots of walking after Philip died. It didn’t do much for her. Everyone left her alone, so her mind was free to gravitate back the precise morbid subjects she was trying to get past.

She thought about the last conversation she had with her husband, and how she should have made him stay, made him go back to sleep. He mentioned that his meeting was out of town, and said that is was at dawn. Twice. That should have been enough to alert her to the duel. She should have seen what he was writing. He hadn’t written with such fervor in so long. At least, she hadn’t seen him do so.

What Eliza wouldn’t give to see him again. To hear him call her “Betsey” once more. She wanted to be with him. But, of course, that was impossible. Instead, she put a poem he had written for her in a locket. She fully intended to wear it until the moment she could run into his arms again.

What time was it? She had forgotten to keep track of the hours. Judging by the blueish tint to the light bathing the cobblestones, it was evening already. The widow Hamilton spun on her heel and began the journey back to her house.

From a short distance behind her, she heard someone shout, “Mrs. Hamilton!”

Her blood ran so cold that it burned. She easily recognized the voice calling her name. Taking another few steps, she picked up her pace, knowing she would probably do something rash if she turned around.

Then, louder, “Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton!” called the voice of Aaron Burr. Eliza could hear his feet pounding after her.  _ Oh well _ , she thought,  _ if he is determined to get a broken nose and two black eyes, that was his decision _ . She felt a hand land on her shoulder, which she promptly slapped away. To her mild dismay, he stepped just out of her fists’ reach.

“What?” She was mildly impressed with the amount of venom that she managed to pack into the one syllable. 

Burr put his arms up in a placating fashion. “Eliza, I mean no harm. I need to speak with you.”

“What could my husband’s murderer have to say to me? Unless it is a full confession and a guilty plea, I doubt I  _ need  _ to hear it.”

“I understand your anger, but you  _ really do _ need to hear what I have to say. Remember,” a look of pain crossed his face, “ I too know what it is like to lose the one you love. Do not think me so insensitive enough to track you down in order to just gloat.”

_ He-  _ he had a point. Wasting words was not like Burr. But then again, neither was dueling. However, Eliza didn’t want to risk not getting necessary information just to satisfy her ire. She glared again, and said, in as calm a voice as she could muster, “Say it then.”

Burr glanced at  some of the people passing by. “This is not really a matter to be discussed in public.”

As much as she detested the idea of bringing him back to her house, Burr had definitely piqued her curiosity. He had always been good at hiding what he thought, but fabricating an appearance of nervous urgency? That was not part of his skill set. Eliza flicked her head, indicating for him to follow her as she walked away.

* * *

 

They sat across from each other in the parlor, the ticking of the clock echoing in the otherwise empty house. Eliza glared at Burr, while he seemed to be studiously investigating the material of the pillow beside him. She imagined shoving that pillow down over his mouth and nose. Forcing him down, holding a candle to his coattails until he was engulfed in flame. He was acting oddly. He had seemed so insistent that he speak with her on the street, but now he sat, silent.

Another moment or two passed before Burr finally spoke up. “I’m sorry for my silence. I’m just trying to figure out how to put this.” Eliza raised an eyebrow, beginning to think she might decompose before he found the right phrasing. “Actually, I’ve spent the last month trying to figure out how to put this. Or even if I should tell you at all. This could very easily cause more harm than good.” 

He took a deep breath and locked eyes with Eliza. “I’ve realized that I have no place to make this decision for you. So I ask you now: If I could tell you something, something you  _ deserve  _ to know, about… about the death of your husband, something that will definitely hurt you to know, would you want me to tell you?”

She contemplated the query for a moment. She knew if she didn’t ask, then she would go to the grave regretting the decision. She also noticed that Aaron was looking increasingly nervous. With a measure of care, she said, “Yes.”

The man dragged his hands down his face. “Shortly after the election I wrote to Hamilton, concerning-”

“I know,” Eliza said, cutting him off, “I have the letters.”

“Actually, you have  _ my  _ letters.” He reached into an inside pocket on his coat and drew forth a small bundle of papers. “These are his.” He passed them to Eliza, and she began to open the one on top.

“You may want to wait to read them.” Burr looked as if he was reading off his own death sentence.

“Why is that?” She could tell something very odd was going on.

“Because when you do, you will instantly see what it took me re-reading to recognize. I’m trying to avoid you being thrown head first into the knowledge, but reading the letters now would do just that.”

This was getting stranger every second. It was making Eliza nervous. She felt her pulse pick up every so slightly as she re-folded the letter.

“On the day of the duel,” he continued, “I decided to call it off. I was in no mood for killing or being killed.” He paused again, seeming to collect his thoughts. That statement just confused her more. If Burr had tried to call it off, why did it go ahead? Well, logic would dictate that Alexander must have changed Aaron’s mind. But why would he push to have  _ a duel  _ go forward, just to throw away his shot? A terrible answer slowly came into focus in her mind. But that couldn’t be! She would have seen, she would have known-

Burr interrupted her stream of thoughts as he continued. “I told Hamilton that I thought we both should just turn around and go home. He blanched and tried to assuage me by promising that he wouldn’t shoot. I was shocked. I said that I refused to kill him. He broke down into tears and told me that if I didn’t end his life,” Eliza felt herself go numb, “Then he would.”

She was vaguely aware of what Aaron said next. She caught bits of it, “Begged… honor… truth… desperation… pain… regret… apologized…” but none of it really entered her consciousness. The same thoughts swam around and around in her mind.  _ Why didn’t he tell me? I could have helped. Did he not trust me? He didn’t have to do this. He could have told me. I could have helped. I could have seen. I  _ should  _ have seen. I should have seen. Why didn’t I see? Why did he feel he had to hide his feelings from me? I could have understood. I could have helped. _

She felt arms wrap around her as the numbness faded, and heard Aaron try to whisper lightheartedly something about making a habit out of embracing weeping Hamiltons. She was glad for his presence. She was feeling rather weak, and would most likely slide out of her seat and on to the ground if he wasn’t holding her up. Eliza saw as he pulled away that he was now seated next to her on the sofa.

Her face felt hot. She supposed she was crying, considering Burr’s words a moment earlier. Bringing her cold fingers to her damp eyes confirmed that. Aaron looked like he was regretting all of his decisions in life. She shakily took in a breath. She had always found it odd that a bout of crying leaves one feeling more exhausted than exercise often does. Aaron was staring at her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and then immediately afterwards, “I’m sorry, you do  _ not  _ have to answer that.

“I-I,” Eliza contemplated the question, but put it aside. “Did he, when you talked, did he mention why he didn’t tell me how he felt?” It was a shot in the dark, but she was asking anyway.

“Not why he didn’t tell  _ you  _ specifically, but he said he wanted absolutely  _ no  _ implication that he arranged,” his voice faltered, “the entire thing on purpose. He didn’t want you and your children disgraced.”

_ But that wouldn’t have mattered to me. I could have helped. He must have known that _ . She felt little droplets sliding off of her cheeks again. Rubbing furiously at her eyes, she whispered, “I need to stop wasting time on tears.”

Burr was seemed at a loss for words. It wasn’t unusual for him to not talk, but he usually was silent because of a wish to be, not because he didn’t know what to say. He rose from his seat and moved towards the door. Just before exiting, he turned back to face Eliza.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

That was a good question. “Throughout my life I have always been defined by events and people around me. Daughter, sister, fiancée, wife, mother, cuckquean, widow. None of those terms are invalid, they all still at least once applied to me, but now, I think, I shall be Eliza.”

Aaron nodded, and left the room.

* * *

 

During the night, Eliza allowed herself to cry one last time. She cried for the loss of her son, she cried for what the loss had done to her daughter, she cried for the loss of her husband, and she cried for the pain he must of been in, alone. Words had never come as naturally to her as they did to her sister or spouse, but that night, she understood the frenzy she had so often seen Alexander in when he wrote. 

She understood as the words poured out at a faster rate than her tears, more desperate than her sobs, and her neat script so much clearer and more orderly than the endless thoughts bombarding her mind. In the candlelight, the ink staining her fingers could have been blood. It looked so firmly set, she wondered if it would ever come off. She read over again what her heart looked like on paper, and felt a sort of satisfaction. No one would ever need to know what she knew, what she felt. 

She watched as flames flickered over the words she had put so much emotion into. She watched the familiar sight of her words turning to ashes. She watched her words becoming a secret between herself and herself, again.

* * *

 

A decade passed.

Eliza was in her mid-fifties. She and her son, John Church, were going through Alexander’s papers, meticulously reading every letter, journal, and essay of his that they could find. Sitting in her study, alone, Eliza flipped through the pages of yet another journal, filled with Hamilton’s familiar, and at times, almost illegible scrawl. Looking at the dates on the tops of the pages, she saw that this was one of his later ones. She came to a spot where several pages seemed to have been torn out.  She paid it little mind. John and she probably had those papers filed away somewhere else.

What did catch her eye was an envelope that fell from its pages, onto the floor. She set the jounal on the desk in front of her, and bent down in her chair to pick it up. She couldn’t believe they had missed something. She distantly thought that she had to make another round through these, to make sure there was nothing left lurking around. Her fingers brushed against the tea-colored paper as she pulled back the curtain in front of her, letting light flood into the room, and illuminating the letter. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw a familiar word written on its front.

“Eliza.”

She leaned forward with the letter in hand in order to get a look at it in a better light. Eliza turned it over, and her heart skipped a beat when her eyes landed upon the unbroken wax seal. Very carefully, she opened the packet. The date written in the top right corner struck her first. She knew that date. She had seen it enough times when she had re-read Alexander’s last letter to her. Or, at least, what she had assumed was his last letter to her.

> My dearest, Betsey. How I long to explain my thoughts and feelings to and for you in person. How I long for you to never find this letter. How I long for you to come running back through the door to try and dissuade me from embarking on this next venture. It has been less than a minute since I last saw your face, yet I already miss you so. The purpose of this letter is to tell you the truth. The entire truth. What I have already written to you was not a lie, but I suspect you might still feel cheated if you knew what I was concealing. Even though I have planned every aspect of tomorrow, I do wish I could avoid the confrontation with Mr. Burr, but the simple fact of the matter is that I cannot. I cannot continue on. I wish I could, for you and the darling children’s sake. But there is nothing left of me. No matter how hard I have tried to let myself fall back into place, I appear to have disconnected. I can think of death as the only escape. I so long to tell you this, to actually tell you this, but you would try to help. When nothing changed, you would feel guilt. And if there is one person who deserves to be guilt free for all of their days, it is you. In fact, I have half a mind to destroy this letter now, so that you never have to know this. But I cannot bring myself to think that it is certain that you will continue on, acting under my deception, for the remained of you days. I will most likely just hide this somewhere where it is doubtful anyone will look.
> 
> I love you Eliza. I wish that providence will bring us together again someday, far in the future. I wish you the best, and I hope you move past my actions quickly enough. I hope you smile. That would be enough.
> 
> Completely yours, forever and always,
> 
> A H.

Eliza refused to let her tears spill on to the paper and make the ink run. She had thought she was done with weeping. Evidently not. She knew she couldn’t let anyone else see this. But she couldn’t bring herself to destroy this last note either. After an hour or so of deliberations, she came up with a solution. She read it over and over and over again, committing every single detail to memory, until she could easily recite in french and backwards. 

As dusk fell, she found a sturdy wooden box, placed the letter in side, and dashed to the back garden. She chose somewhere at random to bury it, somewhere no one else would think to look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to comment if you enjoyed


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